The Adventures of Eragon the Dragon Man
by Bellatrix567
Summary: Complete and total crackfic, complete with too many references, too much swearing, and too many unneeded sex references. Pissed off with constant bullying about his name and even more pissed off that the freakin' birdface men stole his box of condoms, Eragon sets off with the fat old perv Broom and his new winged lizard which sexts him telepathically to go kill the king. Do enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

**Beware: I am not exactly what one would call an Eragon fan. This is pure crackfic with far too many references. As most of it is written whilst I am in a state of extreme tiredness often coupled with an extreme sugar high (generally to the point where I will stay up late talking to myself), it isn't the best of writing. In fact, it's rather awful writing, but I felt like posting something, so here you go. Enjoy. Or not. Most likely you will do the latter. Flames will be unsurprising.**

_Once, in the time of legends, there was a man. He was a great king - he stood like a king and everything - he was so great that he was not even a man. Well, he was. Just an obscenely old man. But he looked like a moderately old man. He was with a beautiful woman who was also old, but she looked young. So it looked like pedophilia, but really, she was the one who was going to make it to five hundred. His name was..._

But that man has nothing to do with the topic at hand. Nothing. At all. We aren't even going to tell you his name, that's how unimportant he was. No, you shall not know his name. Nor anything at all about the place he lived in. Except that there were Orcs. Don't ask what they looked like.

Anyway...

Once there was a young lad named Aragorn Eragon. He was fifteen, but he looked like he was about five. This is because the people of... oh wait, wrong man. Okay, Eragon was fifteen, and he looked fifteen, thank you very much. He only acted like he was five. Unlike that other one... nevermind.

Anyway, Eragon was trying to shoot a deer. He was a very good hunter, and the deer was about five feet away, but then guess what? Some hooligans started shooting off fireworks! The deer ran away before Eragon could catch up.

"Húta!" Eragon said, cursing in fluent Tolkien's Elvish the Ancient Language. Oh, wait, he doesn't know it... nevermind, that was a misquote.

"FUCK LIFE!" Eragon said, cursing in fluent Language Which Boring Humans Speak. Then he turned around and saw a rock.

"Oooooooooooh, a rock!" Eragon said. "Well, I had better take this eighty-pound rock back with me. You never know when you need an eighty-pound rock, especially when you're on a mountain and you have to hike back!" So saying, he hefted up the eighty-pound rock and stuffed it in his backpack. Maybe he could wrap it up and trick his uncle and cousin into thinking it was meat.

Eragon got back to Pail-and-Car Valley several months later. The valley was named for looking like a bucket, and the word 'car' was one from the Ancient Language. It was said that it meant 'wagon.' Most people didn't go into the dangerous mountains called A Mountain, but Eragon braved the woods to bring meat back to his starving family. Or, in some cases, eighty-pound rocks.

But have we mentioned that this is a very pretty rock? Well, it was blue and covered in white lines, which makes for much beauty. It was also very hard - Eragon dropped it on his toe on several occasions, as well as on his skull, and it never broke. His skull cracked first. He tested it.

Eragon reached Pail-and-Car Valley by nightfall. It was cold, and he shivered all the way home. He tried to sell his pretty rock to the butcher, but he was afraid the bitter, hobbit-like old man would try to cut apart his poor rock! He had to take it back, even as the butcher offered him an entire hog for it.

"Aragorn," said Eragon's uncle, Amycus Carrow. "Glad you've come home."

"It's Eragon," Eragon said, not keen to put up with his stupid old uncle tonight. Oh, if only his beautiful, responsible, wise and diligent mother hadn't left him here with this man. Eragon's mother was named Alecto, and that was all he knew. Amycus told him that his mother frequented taverns, especially at night, even though she was a lady. She came here one day, very pregnant, then gave birth. Sobbing, she insisted Amycus take the child. "I must," was all she said. Amycus supposed she didn't want a bastard son in her household - Eragon's conception was a mistake, anyway. She didn't even send support checks. Eragon believed his mother had left him to go on some noble and dangerous deed which involved saving the world.

"Oh... alright, then. That name sucks... R's make all the difference... and A's rather than E's..."

"There is an R," Eragon said sharply. "ERRRRRRRRRRRRagon, remember?"

"I know, you're not bloody Eowyn! Although doubtless the chick you turn down in the future will be... anyway, you need two R's."

"I don't care."

"I know you don't. If you did, you would have grown a penis by now."

Tears sprung to Eragon's eyes. "How dare you exploit my weaknesses like that!" he shouted.

"If you can't take it from your own uncle, you sure as hell aren't going to do too well when you get recruited for war."

Eragon huffed and stomped upstairs. He saw his cousin, Ronan the centaur, although right now Ronan had stuffed his legs in a wheelchair. Can't let the mortals know you're not human, now, can we? Ronan was currently trying to go down the stairs in his magical wheelchair. Eragon chuckled, shaking his head, and walked into his room.

Eragon's room was plain and bare, like the average starving farmer's. However, he had a shitton of interesting crap, which he had spent his entire life collecting. He placed the shiny rock on the center of his collection (which covered his entire floor), then jumped over a moldy log with a mewling litter of kittens inside to land on his bed. Eragon pulled the covers over his head and shivered. Home sweet home.

Eragon was very excited two months later. The Pima County Fair traders were coming to Pail-and-Car Valley later that day. They were very late, because the winter was lasting longer than it usually did. This seasonal opening in a regular village with a single father in a fantasy novel is very common, we promise you. Yeah. Even the great Robert Jordan used it . . . he was the only one . . . but nevermind that, that is completely unrelated.

"We're going to sell your kittens," Amycus announced as he strode into the kitchen where Eragon and Ronan were fighting over a burnt, shriveled and dry crust of bread for breakfast. It was common to have luxuries on the day the traders arrived. Ronan was currently fending Eragon off with his horse hooves.

"Ow! God, that is just not fair-" Eragon began to complain as Ronan kicked him in the face.

"You held the crust of bread over my head when we were in public and I had to sit in that magical wheelchair," Ronan protested. "So ha!"

"Ronan, stop it, or I am going to have you shoed," Amycus said.

"Why can't he just always wear shoes like the rest of us civilized beings?" Eragon complained.

"Why can't you just nail your metal shoes into your feet like the rest of those civilized being, Ery?" Ronan asked.

"Calm down, you assholes," Amycus said.

"I am not an asshole!" Eragon snarled.

"Yes, you are," Ronan said. "And you are much more of an asshole than me, because your asshole takes up a bigger percentage of your body than mine does."

Eragon did not know what a percentage was, so he did not respond except to stick out his tongue.

"True as that may be," said Amycus, "You have a huge asshole, Ronan."

"But my shit isn't as stinky as yours, _Father_," Ronan retorted.

"Yes it is!"

"No, it's not, you use it for manure. Literally, you make me go outside and shit in the compost bin."

"Whatever," said Amycus. He tossed each of the people living in his house an eighth of a penny. Money was worth more back in the days, remember, children. "And Eragon, we are selling those kittens, and the moldy log they live in."

"You cannot!" Eragon protested. "That is my moldy log, not yours! I bought it with my own money!"

"Yep..."

"I did! I told you I just didn't catch anything, but actually I traded the handsome stag I brutally killed with a walnut for that moldy log. Old Cenn Buie - ah, I mean, that old guy who likes to complain - was happy to sell it to me."

"Really?" asked Ronan. "You asshole, Eragon! Your namesake would never have done that!"

"Who is my namesake?"

"I don't know, but he can't have been as much of an asshole as you."

"Stop bickering, you two!" Amycus ordered.

"He started-"

"No, he-"

"I could not give less of a fuck. Get out of the house before I send you _both_ off to get ovalicular pieces of metal nailed to the soles of your feet."

The cousins needed no further prodding. Eragon jumped onto Ronan's back ("Bane is going to _kill_ me for this," Ronan muttered), and the two of them sped off down the hundred mile road to the village.

They reached the traders' campsite several weeks later. Ronan ran off to his exclusive clique of perfectly human friends. Eragon mournfully wandered about the stalls, knowing he had absolutely nothing to spend and giving puppy eyes to the vendors. They chased him away with brooms, thrown stones, and thrown bottles of acid; they shot arrows, shot burning arrows, and shot acid-covered burning arrows at him. Eragon walked away in a huff. No one liked him.

Eragon huffed around until he came to Broom, the hermitlike, bearded, obese old perv who lived in a dirty hut at the edge of town. He had earned his name through his fetish_affinity_ for broomstick handles.

"Arag - Eragon!" Broom huffed. "Let's go have a drink, why don't we? It's on me," he added, as Eragon opened his mouth to suggest Broom bought him lunch as well.

So they headed to the village tavern which was there all year, definitely the height of the attractions. Broom sat on a stool, which crumbled under his weight. Cursing in many languages Eragon didn't understand, Broom stood, brought three stools together, and leapt atop them with the nimbleness of an elf. A very old, arthritic, drunk elf.

"Bartender! I want *whatever that drink is that people use to get others drunk so they can have sex* and a shot of vodka," Broom demanded, banging his fists on the countertop.

"And for the boy?"

"The first is for the boy."

"I'm not a boy!" Eragon protested. "I'm a full grown man!" To prove his point, he stood as tall as he could, stomping his foot for extra measure. Broom, the bartender, and anyone else who happened to see fell to the ground in their laughter. One of the five year old girls in the bar patted Eragon on the head comfortingly. Another suggested he get his next pair of boots with at least an inch of heel. Eragon pouted; he already had an inch of heel, and he couldn't walk on two. He'd tried, but eventually gave up and gave that pair of boots to Ronan. For whatever reason, his cousin found that offensive and instead masturbated into the boots.

Just as Eragon was about to drink his *whatever the hell it is*, however, Amycus strode into the bar and promptly ordered "the damn strongest stuff you've got."

"DON'T DRINK THAT! IT'S POISON!" he screamed, knocking the bottle out of his nephew's hand. He then promptly turned to Broom. "You have to pay me first."

"Aw, Amy . . ." Broom protested. "I wuz just gonna have some fun wiv him . . ."

"No pay, no gay . . . sex. Shit, that didn't even rhyme, did it?"

"I'm between welfare checks, okay?" Broom said.

"You heard me." Amycus replied. He was unable to press his point farther, however, as the bartender appeared with his drink. Without a moment's hesitation, Amycus began to drown his sorrows, hitting the floor and merrily singing "The Mossy Mountains." Eragon shook his head and left the bar to avoid further embarrassment.

Eragon found his beautiful blue rock stashed outside the tavern. _Now, how did that get there?_ he wondered. He picked it up and decided to go and sell it. Maybe he could spend the money on that vibrator he so wanted . . .

Upon entering a random merchant's tent, Eragon was . . . well, he was promptly chased out, with a lump of mud dripping down his already filthy hair as a reminder not to return.

Several hours later, though, Eragon found a slightly deranged trader who took his rock, banged it with several of his 'shinies' (including but not limited to: swiped keys, nails which sparkled, all sorts of jewelry which could be sold for a hefty amount of gold if it wasn't covered in sticky white stuff, tinsel, something called a 'battery', and sparkly fabric. That produced the most charming tinkle of all when beat against the blue rock), and decided that it was not of any value due to many dents which had mysteriously appeared all over its surface.

Grumbling but secretly grateful, Eragon took the rock back home. On his way, however, he saw a pretty girl called Katrina doing the downward dog in an alleyway, stark naked. Ronan had his front hooves placed on the wall in front of her, and they were having some bizarre form of horse-human sex. "Harder! Harder! Harder! Harder or I'll have you chopped up into horse meat!" she screamed. As Eragon watched, they separated and began making out passionately. He hoped they would not begin to have oral sex; Katrina might choke.

Eragon returned home to find Amycus passed out on the dining room table, a nearly empty bottle of beer clutched in one hand. Chugging the rest of the beer, Eragon ran to his room, hid the blue rock underneath his five year old Scream mask, grabbed his makeup and Sharpies, and returned to the dining room, where he proceeded to give Amycus lipstick, blush, eyeshadow, a unibrow, a mustache, a penis coming out of his mouth, and a Harry Potter scar before hurriedly returning to his room.

**ERAGON IS FANFICTION ERAGON IS FANFICTION ERAGON IS FANFICTION**

**Most people reading this will disagree - or most people who read the top AN do. You probably haven't put up with this story all the way to the bottom. And as you most likely disagree, I urge you to contemplate Eragon and Arya's names (as well as Paolini's understanding of vowel sounds concerning the latter). Once you have made a thorough contemplation of this, contemplate Aragorn and Arwen. And then review. Reviews are good.**

**This will be a multi-chapter fic, although it is highly unlikely anyone will be much inclined to read the next chapter. Especially after that lovely author's note. Still . . .**

**Reviews?**


	2. Broom's Story

**Hi all! (That is to say, hi those seventy or so people who have actually read this . . . no, not that. Hi, those thirty people who are stupid enough to proceed on to the next chapter!) Keep going at the pace I'm going, and I'll finish this sometime in the next two decades. Oh, and have I mentioned that I haven't exactly finished Eldest yet? Ah well.**

**Enjoy!**

As Eragon slept that night, he kept hearing strange things, such as cracking noises and dragon roars. _I suppose the kittens must be acting up,_ he thought. They were beginning to get much too big for that moldy log, after all. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

Eragon awoke to find a giant lizard staring him in the face and trying to coax his tongue from his mouth like a robin would a worm. Eragon gave a strangled yell, upon which the lizard leapt away. Eragon wasn't sure where this thing had come from, but he noticed it had wings. Only one reptilian beast had wings, and they were just like platypi. Most folk called them _Draco_ . . . no, that's not right. This thing wasn't blonde. Okay, try again. Most folk called them . . . _funny winged lizards SHIT! _That's not right, either. You know what? Screw it. Just look on the back cover. There's got to be something about this creature on there.

_I must hide this hideous being from the world,_ Eragon thought. _Otherwise it will be taken to a freak show, paraded around like a freak for many years, then hidden in an opera house where it will be a pedophile and make pathetic attempts at a Beauty and the Beast and the Peeta Who is Just Kind of There retelling. And it will have a singing voice fetish. We don't want that._

To make sure his pet whatever the hell it was didn't live that particular very unlikely life (especially for a winged reptile), Eragon scooped up the beast and hid it underneath the his mattress just as Ronan yelled "What's happening? Eragon, darling, are you alright?!"

Or Eragon imagined he yelled that. What he actually yelled was "Shut up, I'm trying to sleep!"

Eragon yawned. He was rather tired, too. Perhaps he could deal with this misfit creature in the morning. Yawning again, Eragon curled up under the covers and fell asleep instantly.

Eragon was awakened the next morning by a pounding on his door. "Eragon! Get your ass up here!" Ronan yelled. "Uncle Amycus says we have to plow the fields before we can go back to pickpocket the traders!"

"Come get me!" Eragon yelled back. He was not a morning person.

"No way! I'm not walking through that disaster you call a room!"

"Fine." Swearing fluently, Eragon rose, put on pants, gave the kittens a fresh bowl of water from the well outside, and finally exited his room. Only after all this did he remember the winged lizard inside his room. Ah, well . . . it could wait. He wanted to ogle at the traders again.

Once outside, Eragon hitched Ronan up to the plough (his family was too poor to afford an ox or a mule). With the extensive use of Ronan's new whip (a gift to him from Katrina), the cousins finished ploughing the field in no time.

"Eragon, you asshole!" Ronan roared. "That really hurt! I mean, it _really_ hurt! I think you broke the skin."

"Hey, you're not the only one in pain," Eragon retorted. "I mean, I _stubbed my toe_ here."

"I don't give a damn about your toe. I'm not giving you a ride to Pail-and-Car Valley today."

"What!? Ronan, that's not fair. You _always_ give me a ride on the second day. How am I supposed to walk on this stubbed toe, anyway?"

"Ronan!" Amycus barked as the cousins came in to eat their meagre breakfast of roast pork, scrambled eggs, carrots, apples, and oats. "Go outside!"

"Why!?" Ronan demanded. Being a centaur, he took this a little personally; a friend of his had had to sleep in a stable.

"You're bleeding all over the place," Amycus said.

"I think you'll find that's my blood," Eragon said, both to defend his cousin and to make sure his own suffering was not overlooked. "I stubbed my toe, you see."

Once they were at the village, Ronan once again departed to hang out with his buddies. Having no friends or romantic affections of his own, Eragon moped around the village all day. He noticed two men in black cloaks. He noticed many men in cloaks, actually, as this was the main article of clothing people used to keep warm, but these men in cloaks were special. They were . . . different. Eragon wasn't sure how, but he just _knew._

As the sun began to set, people were gathered around a big stage. Why there was need of a stage in this village no one knew; they certainly didn't act or dance. Some of the traders did, though, and Eragon saw marvellous foreign dances such as the worm, the twerk, and the Harlem Shake.

At long last, the dancers were tired. Someone called out, "Tell us a story!" To whom they were calling it was unclear, but everyone else took up the chant. Broom, who liked to be known as the village storyteller, finally wheezed, "Alright, alright!" Everyone groaned; Broom's stories were usually about the young children he had . . . _affections_ for.

Wheezing, Broom waddled up to the stage, attempted to climb atop it, discovered he couldn't lift his legs that high, and finally settled with sitting on it. He then began his story.

_There was once a little boy named Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle lived in an orphanage in London, where he . . . crap. Wrong story._ The villagers groaned. Broom pretended not to notice and started again.

_There was once a little midget named Smeagol. Smeagol . . ._

"We don't give a shit!" someone yelled. The rest of the villagers took up the chant. _We don't give a shit, we don't give a shit, we don't give a shit . . ._ Broom sighed. He tried to yell and get the villagers' attention, but to no avail. He tried getting up on the stage somehow and waving his arms, but the attempt proved fruitless. Even the funky chicken dance had no effect on the relentless chanting. So, in a last-ditch attempt, Broom farted.

The whole valley went silent as the smell pervaded the air. Some moaned in agony; others fainted; still others assumed the fetal position and cried for mommy. Broom waited until the attention was yet again on him.

_The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a little boy was born. The boy was not a beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning._

Broom paused. "That is a fuckin' lot longer when it's not in a tiny font."

_Anyway . . . one time, a long time ago (like, a seriously long time ago. You weren't even born. Heck, your daddy wasn't even born. Maybe his daddy wasn't born. Maybe even _his _. . . oh, you get what I mean), there were these dudes. They were pretty cool. They were called the Dragon Men._

_Dragon Men were seriously awesome. They were like angels, full of light and goodness and the Light and all their acts they did for good. Thus, they lived forever unless someone killed them, which evidently happened pretty often, 'cause there weren't too many. They were also impossible to kill, though, 'cause they were like super strong and shit. And magic. They were also magical. And there was lots of magic in their pants. I would know. But do you wanna know what made the Dragon Men super special? They rode _dragons.

_Oh, you don't know what dragons are?_ Brom launched into a lengthy description of dragons. "...and they've got these super long eyebrows, kinda like the antennae of an insect, plus also there's like, horns and crap coming outta their eyebrows. Dragon eyebrows are _cool,_ man."

So _that's_ what it is, Eragon thought. He understood now. The weird little thing in his bedroom was a _dragon._

"Get back to the story!" someone yelled.

After a exhausting his vocabulary of positive adjectives with which to describe the Dragon Men, Broom continued with his story.

_And one day there was this kid called Galbixoritax - er, Geldatorix - no, no, that's not right - Galaxitor - Galaxy? Oh, screw it. Everyone called him Galby._

_So Galby was this kid who was real good at Dragon Manning, so he became a Dragon Man. They are also called Men for short. So Galby was a very good Man. Teachers liked him, because he was a very bright and handsome young orphan. However, Galby never had - or wanted - a friend._

_So after Galby finished his training, he went on a big trip with his friends, who were little more than cronies, really. They were Dragon Men, too. Their names were Bel - well, you don't need to know that. But anyway, they were attacked by - guess what? What attacks everyone in your typical D&amp;D game? __GOBLINS__. Shit. __ORCS __No, damn it. Er, they were, they were . . . __TROLLOCS__. Fuck . . . oh, I know! Urgals. Yeah. They were _Urgals.

_So anyway, the Urgals, like, killed Sev - Galby's buddies. Cronies. Whatever the hell they were. And they killed their dragons, too. But Galby was special, so he didn't die. He killeded ALL the Urgals. But one of the Urgals, named Bard the. . . but you don't need to know that. The Urgal shot Galby's dragon's weak spot, where it lacked a scale on its stomach. And, lacking proper healing skills, Galby was unable to save it. His dragon bled to death from a single arrow wound in about two minutes._

_How do I know this, you ask? __Plot convenience__. 'Cuz I do, that's why, you asshole. Now do you want to keep asking stupid questions, or do you want to hear the story?_

"Stupid questions!" the villagers hollered. Broom pretended not to hear them.

_This was when Galby went nuts. He got all depressed and dysfunctional, but he was so cool that he didn't even die. Or gain weight, or stop shaving, or give himself infected wounds by accident because his razor was rusty, or any of those things. In fact, he was so cool that he made it back to the Dragon Man Clubhouse almost unharmed._

_While he was journeying, however, Galby realized something; he was lonely. He wanted a new dragon, so they could sex talk while they flew over the countryside. He _really _wanted a new dragon._

_He slept a lot at the Dragon Man Clubhouse. When he awoke, he asked for a new dragon, because his old one was brutally murdered. However, his desperate pleading revealed that he was really, deeply off his rocker, so he was sent to an insane asylum._

_Remember that, kids. Don't ever plead and beg for a new dog. It means you're 're erecting an insane asylum of our own, once King Galby sends us the money . . . shit. Forgot to say spoiler alert._

_But, being as cool as he was, Galby escaped the insane asylum and began to live in the wilderness, living on naught but berries, bark, and whatever he could hunt with his magic. Which was everything. He eventually found another Dragon Man called __Morgana_ _. . . __Morgan_ _. . . Morzan. Yeah, that's the one. He and Morzan had hot gay sex._

_Galby and Morzan announced themselves as a couple, but the Dragon Men wanted to make more Dragon Man babies, and Galby and Morzan couldn't make Dragon Man babies together. The two of them were banished from Dragon Man City, now known as Ru'ru'ba'ee'nu'fu'ku'guacamole'poo, our capital. {As we all know, apostrophes in names bring a touch of fantasy}_

_Morzan entered Galby's dark apprenticeship, where he learned secrets and amazing magic tricks lost to the ages._ Something about Broom's boner said that these weren't tricks confined to the battlefield.

_But anyway, they kept on being bad together, and starving in the woods, and doing magic, until twelve more of the hundreds of Dragon Men joined them. These twelve became the Thirteen __Forsaken_ _Forsworn, and they were EVIL._

"Twelve doesn't equal thirteen, dummy!" someone shouted. Eragon suspected it was one of the traders. Those rich bastards were always so keen to flaunt their higher educations, which of course the villagers didn't have access to.

_Does it look like I give a shit, motherfucker? Ha. Thought not._

_So anyway, Morzan, Lanfear, Be'lal and Sammael and all the other Forsworn took on the Dragon Men. The Men tried to fight, but thirteen whole people, plus Galby, who now rode astride a komodo dragon . . . anyway, thirteen people were too much for them. They all died._

_However, the wise and aged leader of the Dragon Men, Alby, stood and fought Galby. They fought long and hard, but alas, Alby's arthritis caused him to stumble and drop his sword. He picked it up, though, ignoring his screaming bad back, and defeated Galby._

_But it was not over yet. Using his powers of sweet seduction, Galby seduced Alby, and the two of them had hot gay sex 'til sunrise. Then Galby cruelly chopped off Alby's penis before he departed, taking the crumbly, wrinkled thing with him as a souvenir. Alby died of depression three minutes later._

_Then, raising Alby's severed penis high above his head, Galby declared himself ruler of all Alagazioo - Alagiazi - er, Anagaysha? Anaconda? Yeah, that's it. King Galby is now ruler of all Anaconda. The end._

Broom made a sweeping bow, which caused him to overbalance and topple off the stage. The villagers exploded into cheers; it was a rare event that they heard the story of their evil and tyrannical ruler, King Galby.

**I'm hoping at least some people got all the Wheel of Time references in there . . . reviews?**


	3. The Shiny Rock

**I'm baaaaaaaaaack. Lie and say you missed me.**

Eragon couldn't sleep that night. This was probably due to the fact that his winged lizard - his _dragon_ \- was continuously knawing on his toes, constantly drawing blood and ripping off his pinky toenail. But it was also due to his whirling thoughts.

Eragon had a dragon. The Dragon Men were all gone, now, seeing as the Forsworn were bound forever in Shayol Ghul . . . er, they were dead. But with his dragon ("OWWIE! Fuck, don't you have a bone or something? STOP BITING MY TOES THAT HURTS!"), Eragon could become a Dragon Man. He could lead a new army of Dragon Men against Galby, the evil and tyrannical ruler. Exactly what Galby _did_ that was so bad escaped Eragon's memory, but hey, the guy collected _taxes._ Surely anyone who collected taxes deserved to be overthrown. Then Eragon could be king.

Lost in his fantasies, Eragon finally sank into a deep and blood-riddled sleep.

The next day, Eragon and Ronan were lucky enough to buy lollipops from a trader just before the whole lot of them left. Eragon also managed to bargain for a litter box (in gold, not Broom's . . . fun). But as they watched, the traders gathered up their tents and wares and all crowded around a broken wagon wheel which no one had bothered to pick up. In an instant, they were gone.

"Hey, Eragon, mind if I ask you something?" Ronan said. He was being especially polite, as Eragon had agreed, for some reason unknown to both of them, to do all the chores when they got back.

"Yes, I do mind. But ask away."

"What's that claw mark on your hand?"

"Uh . . . what?" Eragon muttered. He looked at one hand, then the other. Yes, yes, that had to be what Ronan was talking about. The dragon had given him a rather nasty bite when he shoved it off his bed. "Ah, you mean this? This is nothing."

"Where'd you get it?" Ronan pressed. "Why didn't I hear you crying?"

"I find that offensive," Eragon snapped. "I don't cry _every_ time I get hurt . . ."

"No, just every other. No offense, of course. Do continue. How'd you get bitten?"

"Well . . ." Eragon fumbled for a reply. He couldn't show Ronan his dragon. If he did, Ronan might want to become a Dragon Man himself, and everyone knows centaurs don't ride dragons. All Eragon's instincts told him to run before this questioning went too far. He had to create a diversion.

Waving his hand in front of Ronan's face, Eragon announced "This isn't a dog bite, Ronan. It's a - GETAWAY OPER . . . . AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" He turned and ran, but he hadn't taken into account that horses are faster than people, and Eragon wasn't a very fast person in the first place. Ronan tripped him before he ran ten feet.

"Nice, Eri," Ronan smirked, placing a hoof atop Eragon's back. "Look, I don't really care about your dog bite. But . . ."

"My Getaway Op - ug, nasty . . . uh," Eragon muttered as Ronan pressed his face into the ground. Or he tried to. It came out more like "Gedway ignasia."

"Your _what_?" Ronan asked, confused. He raised his hoof slightly - Eragon still couldn't get up, but at least he could speak without getting a mouthful of dirt.

"Ronan, if you don't care, could you get off of me now?"

"Sure," Ronan said, but he hesitated. "You're still doing all the chores, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Great. Hey, want a ride?"

Eragon spent many hours that day in the hot, sweaty, boiling, winter sun, worrying about his dragon. Well, he was actually worrying about his own well-being (he could die of heat exhaustion in this fifty-degree heat!), but if he died, so would his dragon. He didn't expect Amycus or Ronan to clean out his room and find it. And if they did . . . suffice to say horses don't like snakes.

Eragon spent the rest of the day with his dragon. As it was six, and he always went to bed at eight, this wasn't a whole lot, but still. It was something. He stroked the dragon. He gave it lettuce and carrots and milk and everything else a dragon could want. But the dragon still wouldn't eat, and then it hit Eragon . . .

He didn't know how to raise a dragon.

**Reviews? It'll move faster after the next few chapters, I promise!**


	4. A Talk with Broom

**Two chapters in one day! Oh yes! I'm special! Actually, based on the quality of the writing, a two-year-old could have done the same, but still . . .**

Eragon went to town again the next day, even though Ronan pointed out that the traders weren't there anymore. After Eragon reminded him that Katrina was, however, he consented to give his cousin a ride.

In the village, the first person Eragon ran into was Broom. Broom was returning from the tavern, huffing and puffing in the chill air, with a miniature barrel of beer under his arm.

"Little help here, Ari?" he called. "And you, Rory."

Sitting in his magical wheelchair, Ronan gave him a withering look and wheeled away. Eragon, a much kinder soul, shrugged and came to help the old man.

"His name's Ronan," Eragon muttered. "Centaurs are easily offended."

"I know," Broom said.

"And I'm Eragon."

"I know exactly who you are, asshole. Now c'mon, you're supposed to be a kind and caring king who gives a damn about his elderly citizens."

There were so many things wrong with that statement Eragon didn't even start. Kind and caring? Gives a damn about the elderly? _Him?_ Broom must be out of his mind.

"How much will you give me for it?" Eragon asked instead.

"A real fun time," Broom smiled widely.

Eragon sighed. _Shouldn't have expected anything more, really . . ._ Together, they rolled the barrel through the snow and all the way to Broom's house.

"Wanna come inside?" Broom asked.

"No thanks." No need to invade the old man's privacy.

"Come inside; I can't get this up the doorstep by myself."

"Fine."

They hauled the barrel up onto the doorstep and over the threshold. Once they were inside, Broom heaved the barrel onto a stand where it would be easy to extract beer.

"Wouldn'ta come out," Broom huffed, seating himself into the only empty chair, a stained, threadbare rocker. "But I ran outta all the good stuff yesterday evenin'." Eragon nodded in understanding, although in truth he had no idea what Broom was talking about.

"Mind if I sit down?"

"Yeah, yeah, 'course . . . wherever you want. But don't break no glass. I's got enough o' that already . . ." It was very true - there was no square foot of floor that didn't contain at least one empty beer bottle and quite a bit of debris besides. Eragon opted to lift a pile of beer bottles, bottle caps, dirty laundry and two half-eaten, now moldy plates of food off of a stool. A bit of ranch dressing dripped down the leg. Trying his best to ignore it and avoid rudeness, Eragon sat down.

Then Eragon remembered why he had come to the village again in the first place; his lack of dragon-parenting skills.

"Broom? Mind if I ask you about something?"

"Ask away. I know you're pretty inexperienced. The more you know, the more fun we'll have."

"Er . . . right. But I was going to ask a question about reptiles."

"Snakes? You wanna show me yours?"

"Dragons, actually. You know, like the Dragon Men you were telling us about the other night?"

"Uh, yeah? What about them?"

"So say if someone - this someone is just theoretical, mind - someone had, like, had a dragon. A dragon egg, that is. And then it hatched and now it's a baby dragon. What is that theoretical person to do?"

"All theoretical, right?" Broom said sarcastically.

"Yes," Eragon replied. Then, to be sure there was great distance between himself and this theoretical person, he added, "The name of the theoretical person is Aragorn."

"Subtle, aren't you, Ari," Broom said.

"Thank you, sir." Eragon drew himself up proudly. "I hope to become a spy one day."

"Right you are," Broom said. Something about his hysterical laughter made Eragon doubt his sincerity, but hey, Broom was erratic and irrational at the best of times. It wasn't Eragon's place to judge.

"To business," Broom said suddenly, still wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. He filled a gallon tankard with beer and took a swig, slopping the stuff all down his front. He appeared not to notice as he went on, "Alright, the first thing you gotta do is feed your baby dragon. Their favorite foods are horse or human meat - a mixture of both is preferable - but that can be very hard to acquire without getting yourself caught and thrown in jail. So I suggest just giving it lots of beer and dog food. The dragon needs lots of nutrients, so if no meat is available, be sure to cum into its food at least once per day. When a dragon gets older, it can hunt for itself. Elven princesses will later become its favorite."

"All good?" Broom asked, consulting his notes, eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles . . . . um, puffing on his pipe and blowing smoke rings . . . . er, taking another swig of beer, that is. Broom didn't have half-moon spectacles, _or_ pipes, _or_ smoke rings. Or magic. As far as Eragon knew, at least.

"Great," Eragon said, nodding. Broom continued to give him full instructions on how to hide 'Aragorn's' dragon in the woods, make it a leash and give it a treehouse and everything. Apparently Aragorn lived in Carvahall, too. Hm, maybe that was why everyone thought Eragon was Aragorn . . . . but why had he never met him?

Then Eragon remembered that Aragorn was merely theoretical. Of course. Right. Yeah, he knew that the whole time . . . . really he did . . . .

Eragon listened to Broom into the small hours of the night. Then Broom farted. In a panic, Eragon stuffed his fingers down his throat, barfed, and used that as a quick escape. He was already halfway down the road before Broom made it to the door, shouting "At least clean up your own sick! Come back here, ye bastard . . ."

Once at home, Eragon followed all of Broom's instructions. He took his dragon outside, deep into the woods, then ran back to the carpentry shop to get wood. Upon discovering he had no money, he merely grabbed an axe from his tool shed and set out to chop his own lumber. Once that was done, he ran back home to forge some nails in a makeshift smithy, using a tree stump for an anvil. Bringing these supplies back to where his dragon still had not run away, Eragon built a treehouse. He was finished by dawn.

Eragon then turned to lift his dragon into the treehouse, but he found that it had already flown up.

_Ha, ha, loser. I don't need your help._

Wait . . . who said that? It was as if the voice resonated directly into his mind . . .

"Who's there?" Eragon called. "You better watch out. I've got a dragon, you know. It's just 'cause of me that the dragon hasn't come and ripped your throat out already."

The dragon started laughing at this. _Riiiiiiiiiight. Like I'd ever save your sorry ass._

"I don't need saving!" Eragon roared into the empty woods. "I told you, my dragon's gonna get you! It's gonna eat you and kill you and . . ."

_Turn around, stupid._

Eragon did. Well, at first he didn't, as he expected an attack to come from behind. But after ten minutes of silence all around, he did. He saw his dragon perched in the treehouse, staring haughtily down at him. He waved. Then he turned back around.

"What was it I was supposed to see, huh?"

_Me._

"Then come out and show yourself, coward!"

_I'm not a coward. You're just an idiot. I would take offense, but it is in the nature of a dog to shit in the house, is it not?_

Eragon couldn't even begin to comprehend this wisdom surely come from the heavens, so instead he asked, "Where are you?"

A sigh, then _Really? I'm the dragon._

"You're my dragon!"

_No. I'm not your dragon. I never shall be your dragon. You are my human. You're a pretty stupid one by the looks of it - or are all your kind this dumb? Well, allow me to test your usefulness. Human, go fetch me some horse meat. Or human meat. Or both._

"Wait a second . . . ."

_Well, hurry up! I don't want to wait around all day. And make sure it's only lukewarm, mind. I don't want any of that nasty burnt stuff you eat._

Seeing no other option but to obey, Eragon dutifully returned to the house.

"Ronan, I need your help."

"What?" Ronan asked. "And I'm texting Katrina, so this better be quick."

"D'you mind if I, say, chopped off some of your leg meat?"

Ronan started, staring at Eragon in bewilderment. Then he began to laugh. "Go right ahead."

No, it couldn't be that easy, could it? "Thanks!" Eragon said brightly, skipping off to grab the carving knife. It was stuck to the table with dried blood, but a bit of Clorox was enough to unstick it. Eragon returned to find Ronan painting his hooves a brilliant shade of magenta.

"Er . . . Ronan?" Eragon asked.

"What now?"

"Well, you need to, er, lay on your stomach for me to be able to _reach_ your leg. That okay? I'll do it fast."

"Wait - what?" Ronan jumped up, rubbing his still-wet hoof against the sofa. Magenta smeared across it. Ronan's eyes flicked from the bloodied carving knife in Eragon's hand to his excited expression. He gulped, blanching. "My cousin's a psychopath."

"Er, I don't mean to micromanage, but it'll be easier if you sit back down," Eragon said. Ronan started backing away slowly, but the room wasn't large. He crashed into the coffee table, overturning a vase which shattered upon the floor in thousands of pieces, then backed into the wall, knocking a portrait to the ground.

"What . . . will?"

"What'd'you mean?"

"What will be easier?" Ronan asked, eyes now searching the room for a weapon.

"Hacking off some of your flank, of course. You said I could."

"I was joking!" Ronan said weakly.

"Please? I'll do your chores for a week!"

"Dad! Dad, come're, quickly!" Ronan screamed.

"Is that a yes?" Eragon had no idea why his cousin was being so difficult.

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddy!"

"Stop whining, Eragon! You don't have a daddy and you never will!" Amycus yelled from the bedroom. He was unused to Ronan whining or calling for Daddy.

"Eragon's trying to kill me!"

"I am _not_!" Eragon said indignantly. "C'mon, plenty of people are missing legs, and they've only got two! You have four! What kind of sharing is that?"

"You - you're crazy! Get away from me! Carrow, come _here!"_

"Don't call me Carrow, Ronan," Amycus called. "Do it again and you don't get no more apples for the rest of the week."

Only when Eragon began to advance did Ronan realize a key thing to the scene: he was a centaur. Eragon was a scrawny and unfit human, albeit one equipped with a carving knife. Roran reared up, hitting his head on the ceiling and getting a minor concussion, but his hooves were just as hard for it. Eragon fell down, unconscious and with magenta nail polish smeared across his face.

Unsure what to do now that his cousin was stabilized, Ronan first took away the carving knife. Then, after a few minutes of deliberation, he tied Eragon spread-eagled to his bedframe. It was rather tricky to get across his cousin's mess of a room, and even trickier to do so whilst carrying Eragon on his back, but he managed. Perhaps he could give his cousin to the insane asylum.

Carrow poked his head in the room as Ronan was tightening the last of the knots. The man grinned widely. "Excellent, can I join?"  
"Could you phone the asylum?" Ronan asked. "Eragon's gone crazy. He went down to Broom's house the other day - mighta been poisoned."

"By 'the asylum,' you mean Broom, right?" Carrow said. He sighed at Ronan's nonplussed look. "Stop playing dumb and just give me the money. _I'm _my nephew's pimp, not you."

Ronan's eyes widened at the gross profanity. Men weren't supposed to curse - at least, Katrina said they weren't. She whipped him with a horsewhip when he did, so it was probably true.

"Ronan," Carrow snapped.

Ronan stuttered, trying to think of an excuse to get away. "Bane invited me over for a sleepover," he said. "So I was gonna go to Firenze's house . . . right now. Bye!" With that he turned and galloped away into the sunset.

Carrow swore for several minutes, all in the Boring Human Language, as a simple farmer like himself knew no Sindarin ancient language. Or Old Tongue, because _some_ authors can come up with creative names for things. Then Carrow turned back towards the bed . . . but Eragon was era-GONE.

Perhaps you hadn't yet realized it, but Eragon was a ninja. Although Ronan had tied knots up and down his limbs and attached three different sets of manacles to his wrists and ankles, Eragon did a massive Houdini and wriggled out of all of them. He picked the locks with his fingernails. He ripped apart the rope with his teeth. He was a ninja.

Or perhaps Ronan had been trying to tie the knots with his hooves, and you can imagine how successful that was. You decide. Eragon was probably a ninja.

So after his miraculous escape, Eragon ran off to his dragon, sobbing. However, his hands were bleeding and torn from pulling off the pile of rope Ronan dropped on his head, and he was unable to climb up to the treehouse. His dragon only laughed at him, then turned bitter when he had no horse or human meat to offer her. She threatened to kill him, so Eragon ran screaming back to Car-and-Pail Valley.

The first person Eragon went to was Broom. Sometimes Eragon considered the man his sole confidente. Still crying, Eragon tried to tell Broom of his troubles.

"It's okay, Ery," Broom said. "Did you see those two hotties in the black cloaks?"

"EVERYONE HATES ME," Eragon bawled.

"I mean, I haven't actually seen them," Broom continued, "But I've seen them hot bods. They're, like, otherworldly. I mean . . ."

"NO ONE LOVES ME!"

"I'm gonna try to seduce 'em tonight," Broom decided. "Those sexy Myr - um, I have no clue what they are. But they aren't Myrdraal. Or Nazgul. Or Dementors."

"I THOUGHT I HAD FRIENDS IN THIS WORLD BUT I GUESS I DON'T!"

"C'mon, Eragon, quit whining and cheer up. Tell you what. I'll go seduce those hot'cloak'motherfuckers today, and tomorrow you can come with me," Broom said, grinning at his own ingenuity for naming things.

"Okay . . ." Eragon gulped and wiped the tears from his face. Broom grabbed his hand.

"What's that?"

Eragon looked down. Broom was gazing intently at the mark on his hand. He could try another getaway operation, but he decided against it. "It's my gedwey ignasia," he sighed.

"Really? It looks like a Dragon Man Mark to me," Broom said.

"Does it? Well, I'd better be getting home. Amycus will be expecting me," Eragon said, hastily pulling away his hand.

"Of course. Come back tomorrow," Broom said, sitting up straight, trying to look the part of a wizened old storyteller. "Safe journey." The effect was ruined when he farted. Eragon fled the house.

**There is actually a plot after this, really there is! Review even though there was much randomness and little plot?**


	5. The Hot'cloak'motherfuckers

**This one is also very long, and very stupid. But you've come to expect that by now. Read it past 3 am and you'll enjoy it!**

The next few days passed without event. Well, Eragon actually murdered the butcher and a few other people he didn't like - but they deserved it! Not giving him free meat when he asked so politely for it! And Eragon heard that the butcher also didn't approve of Katrina's 'treatment' of his cousin. He even called it inhumane! Eragon had tried to explain that Ronan wasn't human, but the butcher had only snarled that you weren't supposed to abuse creatures of any race. He had to go. And Eragon had to feed his dragon.

Eragon also named his dragon. She was so shiny and blue he decided to call her Blua.

_That's a stupid name,_ Blua had snapped. _I've already chosen a name for myself. You're stupid._

_What's your name, then?_ Eragon asked. He was a fast learner - within two hours, he had mastered the art of mind-talking.

_A stupid human like you could never pronounce it._

_Can I call you Blua, then?_

_No. I wasn't done ranting, damn it. My name's too fantasy for you._

_Oh. But I can pronounce Smaug . . ._

_Wanna try pronouncing my name, then?_

_Sure._

_Okay, your funeral. Here goes: '''''''''''''''''sdf'sdfdf'ewrwe'thcv'u'ytre'yt'gewr''eu'fj'ncds'fs'i'ruyj'''''''_

_That's not even a name!_ Eragon protested.

_Yes it is, worthless, it's my name and it's beautiful._

_Blua sounds better._

Blua/'''''''''''''''''_sdf'sdfdf'ewrwe'thcv'u'ytre'yt'gewr''eu'fj'ncds'fs'i'ruyj''''''' _ snarled and almost clawed out one of Eragon's eyes. _Worthless is a good name for you_, she said. _That's what I'll call you. And you will not talk to me. When you do, you can call me 'O Lord.' Okay?_

_No._

_Good. Now go fetch me another human, Worthless. Maybe this one can be alive? So good when they wiggle and squeal._

Broom still had not plucked up the courage to speak to the hot'cloak'motherfuckers. Strange, since he was usually so forward; perhaps it was their magical ability to convenience the plot.

But then something did happen.

"Katrina's been acting rather boring and depressed lately," Ronan said one night over dinner. "Something to do with her father being brutally murdered . . ."

"So?" Amycus asked.

"So we're going to spend some time apart."

"Son, this village consists of roughly fifty people. How exactly do you intend to avoid her?"

"That's just my point!" Ronan said excitedly. "I can talk to wolves."

"What the _hell_ does that have to do with the conversation?"

"Everything. When I was running out of Shadar Lo -"

"Out of what? You've never left this village."

"Shut up and listen! I met this cool guy Elyas who also talks to wolves. He's going to take me on a journey so I can learn to control my skills and go on many great quests." Ronan beamed. "Like travel with Gyp - er, the Edema - fuck, I mean Tinkers. Traveling People. And get captured by the KKK - um, I mean, the Whitecloaks. Whatever. It'll be fun."

"I have no fucking clue what you are talking about."

"Mars is bright tonight. Wish me luck my friends, I shall return soon," Ronan said. Then he rose from the dinner table and galloped off into the twilight.

"Actually," Eragon whispered to himself, "It's already night."

The day after Ronan left, Eragon was drowning his lonely sorrows at the bar. The hot'cloak'motherfuckers were drinking nearby and whispering to each other, but Eragon knew Broom had first dibs.

_Think of Shai'tan - Sauron - the devil, that's it, and he shalt appear._ Broom waddled into the bar. Eragon caught his eye and winked; Broom mouthed 'stay away while I work my magic' and headed straight for the hot'cloak'motherfuckers.

"Hey there," Broom said. "I don't have a library card, but mind if I check you out?"

The two hot'cloak'motherfuckers ignored him. They even scooted their stools away.

"Are you a parking ticket?" Broom tried again. "'Cause you've got fine written all over you."

"įĖĖİłŔ œňŕŐĻĺ ĺīĪĊğ ğġĭĖ ćõ ầ Ḥ?" one of the hot'cloak'motherfuckers asked the other.

"ẒƯḤəʔǹ ǦɓɄƏ űŴəầ ỘễỚ ỤọỎ ộ," the second replied.

{Translation: "Shalt we speaketh to this common rogue, this boastful braggart, this pitiable peasant? He looketh to be a bastard of lowest breeding, and beneath thine eyes." "Thou canst if thou wisheth so."}

{Translation from the poor Shakespearean: "Should we talk to this idiot? We're better than him." "Eh, if you want."}

Then, as one, the two hot'cloak'motherfuckers raised their hand to their hoods, which they slowly withdrew to show their faces.

They were terrible. Grey skin was stretched across bald scalps and bony faces. They had no eyes nor eye sockets, and their teeth were yellow and rotting . . .

They were women. And they were hot. One had shimmery dark curls cascading down her back, while the other was fair as an elf.

"Is there an airport nearby," Broom said, astounded, "Or is that just my heart taking off?" He blinked a couple times in shock, then exclaimed, "Hot, indeed! I'd go straight for the pair of you!"

"Why?" the dark one asked. "We hear you, to say in your tongue, 'get in on' with anything that holds still long enough. Why swear off boys for a single night with me?"

This was too much intellect for Broom to comprehend, especially when faced with such beautiful women. "Are you a banana? 'Cause I want to peel you nice and good."

"It doesn't work as well on humans, darling," she said with a pitying smile. "They aren't quite so firm, and the guts spill out when the skin is removed. Disappointing, really."

"Well?" the blonde one asked. "Are you going to offer to buy her a drink or aren't you?"

"My love for you is like diarrhea," Broom whispered lovingly. "I just can't hold it in."

"Or you could at least, you know, ask her her name," the blonde woman continued. "Or introduce yourself. Or speak one original sentence."

"You want a sentence?" Broom snapped, disappointed that his tricks weren't working. "Fine! Come into the back and have hot sex with me, ladies! That's a sentence, isn't -" He was unable to finish, for the dark-haired woman struck him in the jaw. Broom lost his tenuous balance and crashed to the ground, where the fair-haired woman drove her boot into his bloated stomach. Broom groaned. "Getting ready, are we? But let's not make these other men jealous . . ." The dark-haired woman kicked the side of his head. Hard. Broom fell silent.

"Could someone take this scum outside?" she called to the bar, which had watched with baited breath as Broom went on his hopeless quest.

"Maybe give him a bath while you're at it?" her companion added. "I doubt he still knows how to take one himself."

A few men came up to drag Broom outside. The women pulled their hoods back and returned to their drinks.

Eragon volunteered to help give Broom a bath. The man was still unconscious when he and six other men started, but he woke up halfway through and had a panic attack.

"Why're ya'll pourin' water all ova me?!" he yelped. "I din't do nothin' wrong, why're ya tryin' ta drown me?" He wriggled and squirmed, trying to get away. "I'll fart," he warned.

"You fart, I'll slit your throat and bathe you in your own blood," one of the men growled. They had all been privy to Broom's farts.

The other villagers scampered after they finished their tortuous task, but Eragon stayed and helped Broom don the clean clothes, new since they had had to be sewn to fit Broom's girth. It was nearly midnight.

"Those stupid hot'cloak'motherfuckers," Broom grumbled. "They're so mean. I bet they aren't even human. No human's so cruel as to not give old Broom a little fun . . . nah, they're probably demons. De'mo'ns. And I hate 'em." He yawned. "I'm awful tired, Ery. Why don't we go down to the tavern and sleep there? After a couple drinks, o' course."

Eragon readily agreed. He didn't want to go anywhere by himself in the dark, and now Ronan wasn't here to give him rides back home.

There was quite a fuss at the bar. People were screaming and shouting. The two hot'cloak'motherfuckers stormed out just as Eragon and Broom walked in.

"What happened?" Eragon asked.

"You know those two cloaked women?" the blacksmith said. "You saw they didn't take too kindly to sexual harassment." Eragon nodded, although in truth he didn't know what that was. "Well, your uncle here . . ."

"My uncle's here?" Eragon said excitedly. "Great! He can take me home!"

"He tried to molest them, Eragon," the blacksmith said gently. He stepped aside so that the room was not obscured by his broad shoulders. A body lay on the ground, surrounded by a puddle of blood. "And he didn't stop, neither, so they killed him."

"Fe'min'ists, I hear they're called," another man whispered. He shuddered. "Scary, those. You don't get no sex from them even if you ask nicely."

"Or offer money," another man said, trembling.

"You realize all the village women don't do that either?" Katrina asked, cracking her horsewhip. "Where's Eragon? I'm bored and Ronan isn't here." She sighed, cracking the whip again. "And all the other boys keep running away . . ."

Eragon shrank back. He had seen Ronan's scars. Well, admittedly some of those were from him when they were plowing the fields, but still . . .

Eragon passed the night getting drunk with Broom. They might have done some other things too. He wasn't sure. It was all a haze.

Eragon awoke the next day with a massive hangover. He blinked, closed his eyes and tried to block out the pounding in his head.

Beside him, Broom groaned, fell off the bed, and retched. Eragon squealed and covered his ears, which only caused Broom to retch louder.

"Eragon," the muscley blacksmith intoned.

"How'd you get here?" Eragon asked.

"We're in his house, dummy," Broom said. "Your uncle died, remember? You're an orphan now."

"I'm not an orphan!" Eragon cried, tears spilling down his face. "My mother and father are very respectable members of society, thank you very much!"

"Oh, young Eragon," the blacksmith said sadly. "You never knew your parents."

"Way to rub it in! That doesn't mean they're way better than _you!_" Eragon said.

"And now your uncle is dead," the blacksmith continued. "Such a shame, such a waste of such a young life . . . Broom has offered to adopt you, but there is also consideration to send you off with your brother. Or I could take you on as an apprentice; together, you and your brother can strive to become Perrin Goldeneyes."

"I'm not that drunk," Broom groaned. "Who in the hell is Perrin Goldeneyes?"

"My appren - I haven't the slightest idea of whom you are talking, dear Broom.

Suddenly Eragon remembered his uncle. Dead. And his dragon. Hungry.

"Where's my uncle's body?" Eragon asked.

"Still at the inn, I believe," the blacksmith said, shaking his head sadly. "No one wanted to touch what had been touched by the fe'min'ists."

"_I _was touched by -" Broom began, but the blacksmith cut him off. "Do you need to see it, Eragon? Do you need to mourn?"

"Yes," Eragon said, smiling. Then he realized that smiling wasn't the appropriate facial expression for a funeral, so he frowned. Deeply. And then he ran off to get his uncle's body.

_Greetings, Worthless. It doesn't look fresh,_ Blua sniffed as Eragon dragged forward his uncle's body. _The blood's all congealed. I told you to bring them alive._

_It's a day old, _Eragon replied. _That's what you're getting, so you might as well thank me for it._

Blua ignored him and flew down to devour the corpse of Amycus Carrow. She had grown much overnight; what had been a tiny lizard with wings was now the size of a house. She noticed him staring and boasted, _I can carry a thousand men._

_No you can't,_ Eragon said.

_Yes I can._

_No you can't._

_YES I CAN! _She punctuated that by breathing fire into the air. Several trees caught fire.

_Now look what you did,_ Eragon said, as more of the forest began to burn.

_Your villager friends won't be too happy, will they?_ Blua said, grinning.

_No, they won't! They'll probably have me flogged and drawn and quartered for arson!_

_Not my problem._

_Yes it is your problem, Blua! Who'll bring you food when I'm gone?_

_Excuse you, my name is '''''''''''''''''sdf'sdfdf'ewrwe'thcv'u'ytr_

_e'yt'gewr''eu'fj'ncds'fs'i'ruyj''''''', we've already been through this!_

_You just said that so I don't have to answer your question._

_You're stupid, Worthless._

_My name is not 'worthless!'_

_My name is not Blua. That's not even a name. That's a fucking color with an 'a' added onto it._

_Oh yeah? Well, 'worthless' is . . ._

_The perfect adjective to describe you._

_That's mean! And I'm emotionally unbalanced because my uncle just got murdered. And you're eating him!_

_Oh, this is your uncle? Whoopsie . . . wait a sec, you brought him here for me to eat, didn't you?_

_No I didn't!_ Eragon lied. _I just dragged him up here so you could pay your respects! And you ate him!_

_Liar. And he was good. I thank you for the meal, Worthless._

_If I call you . . . your name, will you stop calling me Worthless?_

_No. You couldn't pronounce my name anyway._

_Yes I could!_

_Prove it, then._

"Essssdefesdefdef-ewarewe - oh, who are we? Essdefesdefdef whoare we! I did it!"

_You forgot the apostrophes, Worthless._

_You don't say apostrophes, Blua._

_In the Ancient Language you do. There are words of nothing but apostrophes. Like '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''._

_What does that mean?_

_It's one of the many words for 'I want to rip out your spleen.'_

_Really? What are some others?_

_î ÚÚæņŤ ťō řīp ŏűť ƴœŘ şpĻęėňė_

_Cool! I can insult people and they don't even know it!_

_Insult them? It's a declaration of love, stupid human!_

_Are you declaring your love for me then, Blua?_

_Argh! It's not Blua. Tell you what - call me Ruyj. Really the abbreviation should be i'Ruyj''''''', but that's probably beyond your capabilities._

_Ruyj? Sounds foreign. Does it have cool etymology or something?_

_Sure, if you call smashing the keyboard 'etymology,' it's very cool._

_Will you stop calling me Worthless?_

_No, but I will fly you out of this burning forest. You'll catch on fire yourself if you stay here much longer._

Eragon looked around - Ruyj was right. Everything was burning. How had he not noticed the heat?

"Do it quickly," he said. He was surprised to hear his voice was deep and commanding - the voice of a general. Or a Dragon Man.

Eragon tried to leap astride Ruyj's back, but she rolled over into the fire and laughed. Then she took off. Eragon felt his heart sink . . . but not for long, for his dragon came back and scooped him up in her claws.

"WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Eragon cried. "THIS IS SO MUCH FUN!"

_It won't be when I drop you. And I will drop you if you keep screaming this much._

_You're mean, Ruyj._

_You're not intelligent enough to be mean, Worthless,_ she said affectionately.

**No, I don't know why I changed Saphira's name . . . Blua was to make a point, but then I decided I didn't like Blua, and Ruyj was what happened when I attacked the keyboard at random. Ah well. Review?**


End file.
